Cue Cards and Fix It Kits
by crucios
Summary: "You've stopped pretending; fix-it kits and fake smiles work temporarily, but you realize it would be quite a stretch to assume you could hold the façade for an eternity." Bella can't lie to herself anymore. Set after Eclipse, disregard Breaking Dawn.


**Title:** Cue Cards and Fix-It Kits  
**Summary:** "You've stopped pretending; fix-it kits and fake smiles work temporarily, but you realize it would be quite a stretch to assume you could hold the façade for an eternity." Bella can't lie to herself anymore, and she has come to this realization at perhaps the most inconvenient of times. (Set after Eclipse, disregard the whole of The Book Which Does Not Exist, if you don't already.)  
**Disclaimer**: I am not Stephenie Meyer, if I were I would have given Bella a personality, and some common sense. In fact I probably wouldn't have written Twilight in the first place, and taken up sailing, or something, instead.  
**A/N:** I wrote this a long while back, and I posted it a long while back in an old community of mine. I have since come back to it and made several tweaks here and there, and I wanted to repost it, because I'm quite attached to it.

You do not recognize the feeling, not immediately. You feel smothered, but you say nothing, surrounded claustrophobically, by nebulous color and decor too sickly sweet to be natural. You untimely question, but only yourself, why you feel this way. Wrong, you do not want that to be the right word, but hell, nothing is _right _but that word. The entirety of this ridiculous façade, everything, it has all begun to catastrophically define the word wrong (well, you suspect it felt wrong long before now, but then it was a hell of a lot easier to ignore), you cannot stand it. You can only say nothing, because you are afraid of _something_, and nothing does not present a dilemma, it is simply nothing. Not a doubt, nor a vacillation. So you shun aside the something, a something (the aforementioned doubt) that you fear will never be voiced.

The feeling, once hazy and first unrecognizable, taunts you in frequent bursts. You look up, the heavy clouds (cruel irony that) temporarily disperse, joining the void, and for the smallest of moments, a moment so small it should really be insignificant (but you whole-heartedly know it isn't), you catch a glimpse of the sun.

You realize now, that was the first sign. If you believe in that sort of stuff of course. But then you are in fact moments away from being wed to a vampire (whilst hesitantly considering leaving him for a werewolf), thus it seems rather ridiculous to decide now what is believable, and what isn't. Nothing seems too far-fetched any more.

You feel out of place, the dress is crumpled, a traditional monstrosity in which you are barely visible amongst the puffs and lace. It isn't right, it isn't you. Alice tells you, in a reassuringly _Alice-like_ manner, that you look perfect. "It compliments you beautifully," she says, "It sits just right." But it doesn't. You consider it an oxymoron simply to tell you that something so wrong, is so beautiful.

The only coherent word, spinning and screaming, is _stop_. This needs to stop. You adjust the dress discreetly, walking the aisle now. You mask your evident discomfort with a smile, though are sure you appear to be frowning. You don't want to wear this (_go through with this_ naturally, but to claim this is simply a dilemma with the dress, is less chaotic than, well, a dilemma with the groom), but realize that the decision has come too late. The thought bursts out - without warning, as these thoughts so frequently do - when considering the discomfort of the dress. _Clothes are overrated_, that's what he would say, an immature, suggestive yet smile-inducing grin upon his face. Your Jacob.

The second sign was more recognizable, but you're not quite there yet.

So you smile, still with the smiling, and you continue to walk. You do not notice it slip off, not immediately, but when there is a clink as it hits the cold (everything is _cold_, colorless, it always will be this way with him) floor, an echo proceeding it, a gasp that you first do not realize is your own, your heart misses a beat and for a moment, or two perhaps, you cannot breathe. You do not want to stop breathing, not now. (Not at all). You drop to the floor.

"Careful of the dress," Alice says, but you are far from caring about the dress. You've stopped pretending; fix-it kits and fake smiles work temporarily, but you realize it would be quite a stretch to assume you could hold the façade for an eternity. You would rather be dead, in every sense of the word; dead and buried, than live an eternity of regret, masked only by that delicate, inhuman beauty you have come to associate with the Cullens.

You wonder when it stopped being enough, when _he_ stopped being enough. You wonder whether it was always that way beneath it all. You think, perhaps, that a part of you always knew. After all, no matter how often you had previously denied it, a part of you had always loved (still loves) Jacob. And no matter how much you ignored and clumsily plastered over the gaping wounds, a piece of you broke away every time the realization hit that _you would never see him again_. You wonder whether Jacob knew, whether he was right, all along. He would rather see you dead and you are beginning to, for the first time, _understand_. His words are on replay, and you have lost the control (_You'd be better off dead. I'd rather you were!_). Ironically, you think death is not remotely close to punishment enough for your selfishness, for the excruciating pain you know you have caused him.

You close your hand around the chain, clasping it tight, too tight. It hurts for a moment, a sharp pain, and you loosen your grip instinctively. Your heart hurts, _both_ of them. The heart beating in your chest and the crystalline heart wounding the palm of your hand, too sharp, too perfect. Half-heartedly you try to fasten the chain back around your wrist, but the diamond heart rather suddenly feels a lot heavier than it had previously, so you let go and you look. It's wrong, and there's that word again.

Your awareness is down to nought, Alice is speaking, but you can neither make heads nor tales of the words, a mouth moving and a blur of sounds. You blink away the tears you hadn't noticed, apologetic, tumbling clemently down your rose-pink cheeks (soon to be ashen and void of life), a gloss of regret and uncertainty in your eyes. You hesitate, and then you skim your finger gently, inconspicuously, over the delicate wooden werewolf. It's all you have left, all there is of what was, but _never_ all there could be. You could still be _Bella and Jacob_. (_Just Bella and Jacob. None of those freaky Virgos here_). You let out a sob that until now you hadn't realized you had been holding onto.

A third sign and the decision kicks in with an untamable vengeance.

The diamond heart, you grab a tight hold of it, and you pull it gently from the chain. Not in anger, nor anything particularly resembling cruelty or bitterness. In simple realization, and already you feel lighter. Alice stares at you with wide eyes, you've made the decision now and she _sees_, and you know it is only a matter of time before Edward (the guilt that now accompanies his name you fear will kill you, nothing less that you deserve) hears what Alice sees; nothing.

You chance a glance up to the altar where he stands, waiting, a glance you had been avoiding for so long, you can't remember _not_ avoiding it. Edward stares, slightly confused you realize, not yet, he doesn't know yet. You wonder whether that is all _this_ is, confusion. Perhaps you are simply overwhelmed by the situation, perhaps you need more time to adjust. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. Denial, you know. Attempting to convince yourself now is futile, you are too far gone and you know it.

Because _perhaps_ there is a reason this feels wrong. Perhaps (you know the perhaps does not need to accompany the sentence, but it feels unnervingly final if you dispose of it) you had made the worst mistake imaginable and have only realized now, this second. Ironic, that you should realize during your wedding, that you have chosen the wrong person; you almost laugh at your atrocious timing. Only you. It strikes you as ridiculously movie-esque. You wonder when your cue, to run out dramatically in slow motion, will be.

Edward is now staring at Alice, who in turn is staring at you. And you, well you don't know where to look. Edward's face is pained, all-knowing, and you realize that the three of you know now, and you don't think you can face the impact of this horrifyingly cruel decision. Because you do love him, though your actions are currently contradicting that claim ridiculously, you really do. And he does not deserve this. But it is wrong, and you cannot change that, you cannot switch it off like a tap, no matter how much you would like to. It isn't enough, and you don't know what changed, or when. But you want someone else, you _love_ someone else, so much more than you should.

You want the air, the sun. (_Your Jacob_). And it hurts just to simply think his name, yet still, it feels so _right_. A sense of belonging accompanies his name. It is the one true thing you can make sense of, on a day during which everything is supposed to make sense.

The others, those of the Cullens still utterly oblivious to the chaos about to unfold, are glancing between the three of you in confusion. All but Carlisle, you notice, who remains calm and collected, as if he knew or suspected all along.

It is then that you realize, there never was a choice. Predetermined. This was always where you were intended to wind up. Always in the dark, the very last to know, even when the subject matter is your own feelings. But you are Isabella Swan, torn between a werewolf, and a vampire. You never were one for 'normal' partial more to 'dramatic'. You realize how goddamn typical of you this is, that this revelation should only unveil itself to you at the very last moment, the most inappropriate of times. So here you stand, in your wedding dress, on your wedding day, a diamond heart in one hand and a wooden wolf in the other. Representations of the decision you thought you had made, but are now being violently informed that you hadn't at all.

You clasp onto one of the charms, as if your very life depends upon it. And come to think of it, it _does_ depend on it. The other, rather unexpectedly falls to the cool marble floor. It escaped your attention for a second, only a second, you hadn't meant to drop it, let alone so forcefully; you blame your subconscious. Then again, perhaps this is just another sign in an incredibly long list of signs. It clatters to the floor, resounding through the room. Your vision is obscured, and you find yourself on the floor, not entirely sure how you actually reached this point. Suddenly his cold, marble arms are around your body, an attempt to comfort you know, but you feel nothing but cold, hard guilt, and his embrace is no less than smothering.

You wish, just for once, you wish he would scream, yell, show the amount of anger one should show when their girlfriend (fiancée; very nearly _wife_) is leaving them for another, a sworn enemy no less. But Edward does not scream, nor yell, nor act remotely like a normal human being should (but of course, he isn't human), instead he holds you as you cry, as you make the final decision to obliterate any future you had planned with him. You feel as if the sun should blaze through the windows to accompany this realization. But this is not a movie. This is _life_, and that you realize, is entirely the point. This is your cue.

Sometimes it is necessary to take the wrong path, in order to realize it is wrong.

Perhaps an hour, or perhaps only ten minutes later (you've quite lost track of time), you see him, and you feel the air rush into your lungs, as if you are breathing for the first time. Jacob looks up, and a spanner clatters to ground beside him, narrowly missing his foot. He stares for a while, and you realize how utterly ridiculous you must look. Standing in your puffy, white wedding dress (now dirt-ridden and scruffy at the hem), a tear-streaked face, and a grin you can't possibly hide. But Jacob knows, and whilst attempting to wipe the dirt and oil from his hands to his jeans, he takes that step toward you. He says your name quietly, "Bells," as if he can't quite believe it's _you_, and you attempt to say something in reply, _anything_. But before you can coherently string the words together, he is smiling, full of joy, and has pulled you tightly into his arms, his body warm against yours, and after a day full of _wrong_, you revel in how beautifully _right_ this feels. Short or long moments later (you're not entirely sure) your lips find his, and it feels like coming home.


End file.
